by Meg Gardiner
“Yes,” she said.
“What—”
“Twenty units bolus, injected with an insulin pen. He didn’t have time to react. He never knew what hit him.”
“Is he—”
“Yeah. But you don’t get to poke the body with a stick. Keep your ghoulish ass moving toward the square.”
“Have you—”
“Of course I’ve contacted the girl. Told her I was Jeremy Goodhew’s secretary and apologized that the office has been closed because of a fire in the building. Mr. Goodhew will meet her in a public place instead. She’s to watch out for him. He’s young and slim and has black hair and the kindest smile, and he’s wearing a black overcoat. And yes, my accent was perfect fucking Estuary English, exactly like the real secretary; the girl had no clue.”
Who did she think she was, speaking to him that way—his mother?
“I’m on my way to the square,” he said. “Get over here.”
“Five minutes. I have to clean up and change my clothes. The girl and people from the law firm saw me in the school uniform; I need to ditch it.”
He rubbed his hand over his chest, feeling his heart quicken, his breath catch when he inhaled. He strode toward the square, so eager he wanted to scream.
P.J. jogged along at Jesse’s side, eyes on the commotion down the block. “What are you going to do?”
What he meant was, What can you do? Jesse held on to his push-rims, hands cold on the metal despite his half-fingered gloves.
“One thing about that guy Sanger,” P.J. said. “He acted like a speed freak.”
Jesse looked at him. “Oh?”
“He was so twitchy he looked like he was about to jump out of his skin. And he kept clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. It’s what meth users do when they’re tweaking a lot.” He glanced at Jesse. “If he’s burned out on crystal, he’s probably going to be paranoid. Suspicious of everybody.”
Jesse thought about it. He looked around. The pristine brick building across the street was the Marriott.
“Stay here and keep your eyes open. Maybe up there on the steps into the hotel. I’m going over to the square.”
“You aren’t exactly inconspicuous.”
“So I’ll have to use that to my advantage.”
He crossed the street. The grass in the square was emerald green in the sunshine, the trees brambled.
Across the street P.J. climbed the steps to the side entrance of the Marriott. He leaned against the wall outside the door, hands tucked into his armpits for warmth.
Jesse went to the center of the square. Nearby stood the Roosevelt memorial. He gave the black statue a sharp look. The greatest president of the twentieth century, a crip who led the country through World War II, shown standing up. Image at odds with the reality. He continued scanning the perimeter. He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide, had no weapons. He could only improvise.
At the southeast corner of the square, a man in a sweeping black overcoat strode across the street, heading in his direction. Jesse got his phone, hit redial, and turned to greet Christian Sanger.
“Got it,” I said, even as I heard the phone click off at Jesse’s end. I leaned toward the cabbie. “Grosvenor Square.”
He screeched around a corner into a lane the width of a sofa, squeaking past parked cars with an inch to spare. Barely pausing at an intersection, he gunned on, the heavy engine blatting like some old propeller-driven bomber. Gray stone buildings sliced up on either side of us. He keeled around another corner.
He braked so hard my butt slid off the seat.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
Orange traffic cones crammed the street like dunce caps. Barricades were set up, and a British Gas truck and crew blocked the street, manhole covers off, dirt heaped around the trench they were digging. The cabbie looked out the rear window and frowned. A row of cars had backed up behind us. We were hemmed in.
He shook his head. “It’s three streets away; do you want to wait for this to clear?”
“No.” Grabbing my backpack, I jumped out and jammed some bills at him through the front window. “There’s an extra twenty. You’re a prince.”
Jesse watched Sanger stride toward the center of the square. His black greatcoat flared in the wind like wings. Across the street P.J. stood in the doorway of the hotel. Jesse checked to the west. Evan would be coming from that end. He continued panning the square and caught sight of a maroon jacket.
Georgia was walking in this direction from the far corner of the square. Her face was troubled, her thin arms hooked tightly to her chest for warmth, her bare legs mottled blue in the biting air. Eleven years old and she’d made it this far, on her own, and was going to see it through. He felt a knob of emotion in his throat.
Sanger raised a hand expansively and waved. “Georgia? I’m Jeremy Goodhew.”
Georgie’s gaze fastened on him, her stride quickened, and her shoulders dropped, defenses falling.
Jesse could tell her to run, but he had no doubt that of the three of them Christian was the fastest, even though he was pale, his lips liverish, veins snaking blue beneath the skin of his temples. No, run and she was lost. P.J. was too far away, and Evan wasn’t here yet.
He whistled across the green. “Georgia, stop where you are.” He pointed at Sanger. “That’s as close as you get.”
Georgie brought herself up short, about thirty meters away. Christian did a double take, hesitated, and kept walking, extending a hand to her.
His teeth flashed. “Sorry about the mess at the law firm. Just come with me, everything’s okay now.”
Beneath the calm smile, desire rolled around his voice. But though he was smooth and seductive, his hand was jittering. His eyes jinked at Jesse. Jesse lowered his voice.
“Yeah, you’ve seen me before. Outside Evan’s house, when you were riding shotgun for Boyd Davies.”
Christian slowed and stopped.
“That day,” Jesse said, “did you plan to get out of the car and let him be the one to get blown away? Or was that dumb luck on your part?”
Georgie blinked at him, breathing hard. Christian narrowed his eyes. His smile and warmth were receding behind a carapace.
Thinly, he said, “There are laws against harassing people. Why don’t you move along, friend?”
“You also saw me outside the Notting Hill Gate tube station. You missed that chance to snatch Georgie, and you’re going to miss this one just as bad.”
Georgie went rigid. “What?”
Christian slid his gaze her way, shaking his head. “He’s lying. Ignore this man and come with me.”
“Don’t you want to know who I am?” Jesse said. “Why I’m following you, how I knew you’d be here?” Slowly he wheeled toward him. “You got a phone call outside the tube station. It sent you panting down the road like a dog in heat. You took off in a DB9 and came here.” He glanced at Georgie. “When you phoned the law firm did you speak to Mr. Goodhew in person?”
Her face blanched. She shook her head.
“This guy doesn’t have an English accent, Georgie. He’s faking. His real name is Christian Sanger.”
She took a step backward.
Christian’s smile was patently nervous now. “This is ridiculous. Of course I’m Jeremy Goodhew. How else would I know you were coming to the law firm? Why else would I come here for you?” Puffing his chest, he walked toward her. “Let’s go.”
He held out his hand, but she shied back.
Jesse rolled toward him. “If you think you’re safe, you’re wrong. Haven’t you ever heard the name Tim North?”
Christian stopped dead.
This, in the courtroom, was the fishhook moment. The instant when you caught a hostile witness on the lure, and needed to reel him into the boat. So you could hammer him senseless with a mallet and hang him up by the gills.
Jesse nodded. “Well. Maybe you’re smarter than you look.”
“You can’t be Tim North,” Christian said. “He’s . . .” And he s
topped, finding himself stuck—not wanting to blow it in front of Georgia, but scared of the person Tim North was rumored to be.
“I want to thank you,” Jesse said. “You’ve made this convenient for me.”
“What?”
Jesse pushed toward him. “Coming to Grosvenor Square.”
The bravado couldn’t cover Christian’s ignorance. “So?”
Jesse nodded toward the west end of the plaza. “Don’t you know what that building is?”
Christian glanced. “Ugly as hell.”
“Granted. But that’s not my point.”
Christian looked at the hulking building, gilt trimmed and topped by a brass eagle. His pupils were tight as needles. His bluish lips pinched, as though trying to work it out.
“That’s the U.S. Embassy,” Jesse said.
Seeing Christian’s face, he heard a voice in his head: Bingo.
“All those antennae on the roof? Half of them are trained on you. Christian, you may be an idiot, but didn’t the damned flag tip you off?”
Christian’s eyes jigged upward, and he gazed at the Stars and Stripes.
“We’ve got half a dozen agents on duty inside, and liaison with MI5 and Special Branch.” He looked at Georgie. “Cover your ears.”
Taken aback, she did so. Jesse’s pulse was hammering.
“Not all British cops are armed, but the ones who monitor this square certainly are, and they shoot to kill. Do you know what it looks like when a high-powered rifle drills a round through the back of a man’s head?”
“You’re talking bullshit,” Christian said, his gaze flitting around the rooftops.
“Look closely at the embassy. There’s a detachment of marines standing guard inside those doors, staring out at you right now.”
Christian peered at him, mouth caught someplace between a rictus and a sneer. Seemingly without volition his hand went to his chest, fingers rubbing at the fabric of his sweater beneath the coat. Jesse gestured to Georgie, indicating that she could lower her hands from her ears.
“I want you to go over to the embassy. Evan’s going to meet us there.”
“No, she isn’t,” Christian said. “Georgia’s coming back to the law firm. You can’t stop me.”
“Maybe I can’t. But we’re not alone.”
Jesse looked across the square at two businessmen walking nearby. They were staring. So was the young woman sitting on the park bench farther down. And the man with the broom, sweeping up the trash. Jesse glanced over his shoulder at the Marriott. He nodded and P.J. nodded back.
Christian’s shoulders seemed to shrink, as though he were withdrawing into a cracked shell.
Georgie held still. “I’m not going anywhere. Not with any of you.”
Not what he wanted to hear, but he had to give her points for spine. A damned huge bunch of points.
“You’re all fakers,” she said.
She had begun to shudder in the cold, her knees knocking together. She backed up a step. Her hand shot out, finger pointing at Christian.
“I know you’re not a lawyer; you’re not English, and you’re not even old enough.”
She turned on Jesse, eyes going dark. God, it was a fierce look, just like Jax.
“And why do you keep calling Kit Evan?”
Hell. Jesse pushed forward. He was almost directly between them now.
“Georgia, you don’t have to believe me, or him. But you can get safe by running over to the embassy right now.”
She looked agitated, hot spots red on her cheeks. But Christian was cutting his eyes around, no longer at the rooftops but the street.
The freak. Where was she?
“Georgie, get going. To the guard. Go,” Jesse said.
She looked torn. Why wasn’t she going? Damn, Evan had said no police—had Jax told Georgie the same thing? Not to trust the cops?
“You know who’s for real, right?” he said.
Voice shaking, she said, “The marines?”
“Yes. Run.” Over his shoulder he shouted, “P.J.”
Georgie turned tail and bolted for the embassy. Jesse spun, knowing he had fuck-all chance of stopping Christian, thinking, Where’s my brother, seeing P.J. leap down the steps. Christian cocked a fist and burst into a run, chasing Georgie—straight toward Jesse. Thank you, stupid dick.
He grabbed Christian’s belt as he ran past. They crashed to the ground in a heap.
“Give me back my wallet,” Jesse yelled.
Christian thrashed beneath him, trying to pull loose and chase Georgie. “What are you—”
“Let go of me, you creep. Give it back,” he shouted.
He notched his hand more firmly around Christian’s belt. The woman on the bench and the man with the broom were coming this way. Christian looked confused and astonished.
“Stop,” Christian said. “Fuck, motherfucker, you—”
He tried to jam a thumb in Jesse’s eye. Jesse grabbed his hand, rolled, and threw his weight down on it. Christian yelled and twisted beneath him, trying to get to his feet. Jesse held on, felt Christian stop struggling, and went cold as he saw a smile come over the man’s face.
Georgie was sprinting across the grass straight for the embassy. In the distance, Evan emerged from a side street, arms out, waving to her.
From the shadows a slim figure appeared, black hair swirling in the wind, aiming for Georgie like an arrow. Shiver.
Chaos. I ran out into Grosvenor Square knowing that this scene looked too much like tackle football, that Jesse had Christian Sanger screaming on the ground, but was fighting to hold him down, that Georgie was in trouble and P.J. was too far away to help her. That Shiver was slick, fast, possibly armed, and on Georgie’s tail.
The monstrosity that constituted the American Embassy was on my right, concrete and gold chintz shining in the sun. Georgie raced across the square for the front entrance. She saw Shiver.
Without a pause she bolted in another direction. Going on instinct, not giving up, but indisputably desperate.
Shouting her name, I gave chase. Heard Jesse yelling and P.J. changing directions, falling in on my tail. I gave one last look over my shoulder, fear like an ache, seeing Jesse tangle with Christian.
Georgie raced toward Oxford Street. I checked left, for once getting it correct, and followed. This neighborhood was pure beautiful London, almost like a scene from Peter Pan, brick Georgian buildings with dormer windows along the rooftops, from which children should fly away, first star to the right and straight on till morning.
Georgie cut down a side street and disappeared from view. I called her name but she didn’t turn back. My legs felt like bricks. I had to keep her in sight, but I didn’t have much fuel left in the tank.
By the time she ran into the Bond Street underground station I was a hundred yards behind her. I shot a look back down the street. Shiver had taken off the school uniform jacket and tie, and was moving with a smooth stride that put me in mind of a geisha set loose on speed rails. I charged through double doors into the underground station.
Shoot. This wasn’t like Holland Park. This was a shopping center. People all around, hands crammed with shopping bags, phones pressed to their ears, everywhere bright lights, and at least heat, thank God. I hurried along a hallway, spotted the underground sign, and jumped on the escalator. Jeebus. This place wasn’t like any normal mall, but a loud futuristic vision, like a Disney World of Tomorrow ride, circa 1969. And I thought London was just West End musicals and soccer riots.
Off the escalator at the bottom, I ran for the barriers. And gagged—two lines ran through this station. Central Line. Jubilee Line. And I had lost sight of Georgie.
I pushed through the barriers, looking for her, trying to think. Was she running blindly?
No. She had said something to me earlier: Code Black had a fallback location if things went wrong with Goodhew Waites. I found a map of the underground. It looked like the vascular system, veins and arteries snaking out in all directions in multiple colors. Come
on, what was it?
White City. Central Line.
I dashed for it, jumping onto a packed escalator headed down into the bowels of the station. I tried to run past people, but with their heavy coats and bulging shopping bags they took the width of the stairs. What was with all the black clothing? This town was Cassock Central. Above me came the sound of a commotion. A woman squealed, “Hey!” and some teenagery voice, “Stupid cow—”
One look back: Shiver was shoving people aside, gaining on me. I looked around. Between the up and down escalators was an aluminum divider about four feet wide. It looked like a particularly long, nasty playground slide. It was studded with red emergency stop buttons.
“Look out.” I squeezed between a pair of sixteen-year-olds who were necking like the apocalypse was upon us. I climbed over the rubber handrail onto the aluminum divider and pushed off.
I sailed down. The first thing I hit was a NO SMOKING sign. My butt took it and I kept going, tilting sideways like a pin-ball and gaining speed. Five feet ahead was a stop button. I kicked it. And kept going, spinning around.
The shouts came fast and loud. The escalator stopped. The packed crowd bumbled to a halt, but momentum pushed them forward, bumping into one another and grabbing for the handrails. Shiver was trapped near the top. She shoved her way through but was falling behind.
I flew off the bottom of the slide, landed on all fours, and clambered to my feet. People shouted at me. An alarm rang, and a station employee in an orange reflective vest jogged toward us.
I pointed up the escalator. “That nasty American girl hit the stop button.”
Before he could stop me, I ran past. Hitching up my backpack, I coursed through a tunnel and down a flight of stairs to the Central Line. The eastbound platform was crowded. I cut through to the westbound side.
“Georgia. Oh, God.”
She stood on the deserted platform, watching desperately for a train. When I ran toward her, arms out, her breath caught and her eyes widened. I stuck my arm around her shoulder and pulled her farther down the platform.
“We can’t wait on this side. We can blend with the crowd on the other platform,” I said.
